


What's in a name?

by Whenhopediesyoung



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: @ aurra sing turn on ur location I just wanna talk, Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Fett and Bossk: brotp, Fett teaches Rook about bounty hunting, Fett's Armor deserves it's own tag, Gen, M/M, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 16:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whenhopediesyoung/pseuds/Whenhopediesyoung
Summary: A badly injured Fett asks for assistance in completing a job. Bodhi was only supposed to be a pilot.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Bodhi Rook
Kudos: 7





	What's in a name?

The blaster shot takes Fett off guard. So does his body's own reaction crumpling around it like a punctured space lock. He grunts, sound amplified by the helmet and feels fear grip him by the guts. He's not used to it yet, the hellish feedback that comes from the enclosed space around his skull.

Fett snarls at himself, hand finding his side, bleeding slugishly from the unusual blaster. The Emperor was right, the wound was harder to dismiss when heat hadn't seared away nerve endings. He only wished the confirmation wasn't blazing it's way through his body.

He's hurt, badly, face going hot then cold as his body tries to reject reality. For an instant there's only gritted teeth and the scent of scorched metal. For a second the grass under his feet is sliding sand and his father is falling, and he's running through blaster fire to join him.

He shakes it off. Takes aim through pain narrowed eyes, mouth welded together like duresteel. The rebel looks at him from behind a calcified tree, face tentacles rising with belated shock. Fett shoots first, blaster bolt taking him between the eyes.

A cry of rage has him turning, smooth motion faltering as his vision greys at the edges. The Torgruta rebel grabs his contraband and runs, scarred montrals flying behind him. Fett breaks into a lurching run behind him, casting aside his used up blaster. His hands can do the job just as well.

The edge of the planet looms, green waves lashing at the spires of rock near the rebel's ship, if he doesn't cut him off, Fett's not getting paid. Growling against the burn that seems to grasp at his neck by now, he throws himself foward tackling the Torgruta.

No one's ever prepared for an entire person leaping into the air to lock around them, whether Fett's ten or twenty.

The rebel hits the ground hard, lungs dispelling air. Fett slams a fist against his face, free hand twisting a headtail around his arm for leverage. The Torgruta shouts, crying out for his dead friend as if his ghost will help him. They never do. Fett knows that better then anyone.

"Where. Is. Alieta. Darmo." The alien stares at him, laying simply under his gloved hands. A tired triumpth rests in them, a decision to hold the truth behind locked teeth. Fett's seen it before, it won't stop him anymore now then it had in the past.

"Tell me or I drag it out of you." Each word is a trial, a fight against an inclination to stay slient. Lessons from Jango reinforced by Sing and jail and jetti scum. The rebel doesn't seem to appreciate his effort. Fett lofts his head, smashes it against the ground until his eyes roll back.

Later, at his ship he'll put his viro knife to good use. For now he rolls over, drawing in shallow breathes as sweat beads his forehead, let's himself give into the urge to press his hand against the wound. Takes a moment to feel embarrassed at the flash of heat that isn't exactly pain from the wound. He thought he was over this already. That stupid space in time where nearly anything could make his skin feel hot and welcoming.

He drags in a few more breathes, pushes the parts that are _Boba_ not Fett back into their boxes. He has a job to complete. He won't- can't- let anything get in the way of that, not with Sing just waiting for him to slip up. If he was smart he'd kill her, Bossk too, get rid of anyone who might know too much about him. He wouldn't be trying to prove himself to either of them. But that Boba's weakness and right now he doesn't have time for it. The _Slave 1_ is waiting. 

His ship is as barren as Kimino, only containing the tools of his trade and nessicities. Fett doesn't get a home, doesn't want one, only a place to do business in. He pushes away the set of Bossk's shoulders when he first saw the ship. He works better without clutter, personality, tainting his workspace. Hidden under his seat is green armor paint, mixed himself and waiting, but he doesn't dwell on that either.

_Slave 1_ feels like home. As familiar as a Mando's helmet, as the face of his father in hundreds of strangers, as grey worlds full off rained anticipation. He thinks that home and familiar must mean the same, except in rare moments when he hears an endearment in Mando and his chest feels light and heavy and _wrong_. If that feeling is home he doesn't want it anyway.

Habit has him scanning his messages, overtly for jobs and truthfully for any word from Bossk. He doesn't worry, even if Bossk is stupid enough to go to jail for a kid just so he won't be alone, to follow some orphaned child on a quest for revenge against jetti. Aside from a few job offers he remains uncontacted.

He won't relax fully until the Torgruta talks and is delivered, the unconscious presence grating against his mind like sand. His space is being intruded upon and his finely honed senses won't let him forget it. Fett arrests his hand as it tries to drift toward his scarred neck. He only ever needs to be taught a lesson once.

Plotting the ship's course he turns his attention to the locks on the cockpit. He needs to eat, relieve himself, to drink and rest. But first he needs to take his armor off. Four locks and two scans for life forms on his ship later he slides his fingers between his helmet and his neck, searching for purchase. Pulls it off with less struggle then last time.

Jango was supposed to teach him how to make his armor. How the metal folds and the wires work their way in, to keep the look smooth, consistant, throughout. What kind of cloth to wear under which plating, where to double it up to prevent chaffing and where leather is better then cloth or metal, how to hold himself in it. All he has is disjointed memories and dead clones and Mandos to learn from.

The trial and error is more then painful and humiliating, it's dangerous to his life. And the only people he could ask are untrustworthy- Aurra- or don't wear armor- Bossk. He had thought he knew everything by the time Genosis happened, how to shoot and when, how to escape bounty hunters, how to fly, but the things he doesn't know keep adding up.

For a second rage rests hot on his tongue. He swallows it back like a fire eater, roughly pushes _Boba_ back into his box. Eventually it'll come easier, be less of a struggle. In time he'll be Fett first, will have to reach for Boba. Will set him aside like so many other childish things. Soon. He can't handle it if it doesn't happen soon.

He pulls off the rest of his armour, folding it the way his father used to, searching for the memory of Jango's rough voice as he does so. He thinks it may have been deeper, coarser then his own. He doesn't know how to feel about that, about the way Bossk says the shape of his nose and shade of his eyes aren't exactly right.

He's not sure what it would mean if the Trandoshan is right. Is he defective? Is he separating himself from his father? Did Jango get played by the long necked aliens? He's not sure if it's better or worse that he may not be the same as Jango. Not sure if his dad would feel good or cheated by that. If he does.

Fett sways, hole in his side stabbing at him. He staggers, spreading his legs to increase stability. The woozy feeling spreads. He can only kind of feel the blood running down his side, like something thin separates blood and meat. "Fuck." His own voice startles him, head half snapping up own it's own accord before he catches himself.

Fett stumbles forward. His hands are pressed against his dashboard before he can remember crossing the slight distance. He shakes his head, it moves slowly like he's underwater. Breathing is getting harder. He fumbles, thickfingered for bacta. The loss of his motor functions sends a spike of ice through his stomach, even as far gone as he is.

It's a struggle to apply the bacta, wound still bleeding enough to make adhesion a challenge. He's snarling at it, soundlessly, using his anger to keep his hand mostly still. He's _Boba Fet_t, his body listens to _him_. Not the other way around. The spike of nausea says otherwise.

Fett manages to practically doing himself into the fresher before his stomach- and legs- give in. Each new retch produces a new wave of agonized nausea, until he's holding himself up with a dead grip, body shaking and sweat covered. This is wrong, it's not supposed to go like this. Fett gasps a breath and manages to hold it, lifting one trembling hand to push through his overlong hair.

He feels sick and grimy. His head still aches, like someone's hit him straight on his brain. Swearing lowly he forces himself to straighten. Black threatens to overtake Fett's vision. For the first time, Boba's afraid that he's going to die. He hadn't even realized he wanted to live, until his legs had dropped from under him.

He staggers his way back into the cockpit foot accidently sending the bacta kit flying across the room. He cringes at the sound it makes. Getting to the chair is alarmingly exhausting. Nausea threatens to return as he drops down hard enough to rattle his skull. He won't be able to make it back in this condition.

Even as wounded as he is the ship responds to him like it's following his thoughts rather then his hands. He scans the star speckled black of space, reading his position from the stars themselves. The closest planet that won't look twice at a injured bounty hunter pops into his mind, fixed from thousands of conversations with Jango, Bossk and Aurra.

He catches sight of his reflection, hair sticking to his head with sweat, temporary wrinkles from pain etched onto his forehead, the corners of his mouth. He looks weak, human, fallible. Nothing like Jango. Not even like a proper copy of him. His chest feels like it's full of flimsly expansive heat.

The critical look in his own eyes, scrapping across forehead, against his own mouth, belongs solely to him. Fett snarls at his own face, and sets course for Jedha.


End file.
